This is a video that's swept through the choir department at my school. Some of my best friends would reinact this skit out of nowhere. It confused me at first what they were talking about. Now that I've seen it though I must admit it's charming humor. I'm not sure how it came around but it's definitely a diamond in the rough to a lot of students at South.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Geo-Dudes
A Story of Tradition and Family
He sits quietly in his chair, rocking back and forth polishing a bronze agate the size of a robin’s egg with a dingy rag. The air around him is filled with a quiet clamor from his mumblings as he continues polishing. Another much younger man leans against a red trailer staring intensely at his phone. The man in the chair is not a small man. Wearing a dirty checkered shirt and ripped blue jeans, and with his bushy grey beard he gives the distinct impression of a weathered lumberjack.
In his lap sits a polished twisted cane made from the branches of a diamond willow, a tree found only along sections of the Missouri river.
Families walk quickly by his stall averting their gaze from him. Despite that he looks up and gives a grin of more gums than teeth. The children freeze. Their stares are blank from fear or surprise. Then wide grins creep slowly to the corners of their faces as they laugh and run at the stall, not waiting another moment to gape at this man’s treasures.
This is the Haymarket Farmers’ Market. It is a place where tradition matters. It is a place where authenticity matters. It is a place where interaction with the customer matters. It is where the individual matters.
We are transitioning to a modern world where craftsmanship and art are being violently ripped apart. Efficiency is the only goal. When building we consider support strength, internal space, balance, elevator speed, resistance to decomposition, bathroom access, stair comfort, window tint, etcetera etcetera. But a craftsman takes pride in all his work, every design, every cut, every inch of what he makes is intended to serve an aesthetic purpose. That’s why for centuries artists would leave marks, signatures, and insignias on their pieces. There’s no point now, though.
Pat Akins is a craftsman.
He is doing more than handing children shiny pebbles and little jewels he’s passing on a tradition, a legacy far older and wider than himself, and Pat is a big boy. Pat comes from a big family, really big. He has five brothers. Each brother an artist of some discipline, one a carpenter, two construction workers, one metallurgist, and a wood carver. Not to mention their father, a carpenter for his entire life.
It doesn’t stop there either. Pat’s grandson Chris, now 22, has been a part of his grandfather’s business since he was in the third grade.
He still spends every Saturday in the summer down in the Farmers’ Market with his grandfather selling his beautiful collection of minerals. Even after carrying boulders totaling 2,000 lbs for the shop his interest in selling the stones still haven’t been jaded.
Today Chris attends the University of Nebraska Lincoln and is a senior pursuing a career in writing fiction with his English major. That hasn’t kept him from following his grandpa all around the Midwest to show and exhibit their materials. The two are an inseparable pair and their bond is obvious even to passerby.
You think the petrified wood is old? Once the old man fossilizes I’m going to put him on display and sell for a nice profit teases Chris. The old man doesn’t skip a beat, it would take a product as good looking as me for you to finally get a sale around here he says.
The farmers’ market is filled with funny man/ straight man banter all day. The majority of the stalls’ customers are attracted just by the humor trickling down the street. All the rest is done by the sparkling gems.
These two comedians aren’t all fun and games though. Pat has to step away from his stall on the phone to do business with two different groups of people.
The first is all of his suppliers, people Pat has met throughout his travels across the country and the globe. Even though you can’t tell from looking at him, Pat is not a stationary man. He’s sold a million trinkets on the side of his job working in construction. That extra money has let him go around the world. He has contacts in Brazil, South Africa, and the Czech Republic.
Once we actually went on vacation there (the Czech Republic) and while I was walking in the downtown area where there used to be a lot of conflict and I bent over and took a chunk of slab out of the ground where machine gun fire had damaged part of the pavilion. After that I took the slab and polished it with diamond powder and it’s now on my mantle.
The second is all of Pat’s online customers, who view his wares using a website that promotes local store owners. The website has galleries of his crystals, agates, and petrified logs and encourages anyone who’s interested to phone him immediately. He knows his wares so well he calculates the value in his head over the phone and shrewdly tells the final transaction’s cost. It’s an impressive scene, but Chris treats it like nothing.
It’s not impressive when you have several centuries’ worth of practice he jokes.
Pat begins to rant at the joke because does have a long history with the geodes. Thirteen years and his cutting and polishing rocks have forced him to replace equipment time and time again.
We have synthetic diamond saws, harder than natural diamonds, just wearing down little by little every day. Our diamond powder isn’t in any better shape; we seem to polish about a hundred stones before we have to look for another bag of the stuff. The petrified wood is tougher than steel, we have to polish our diamond saws with diamond powder just to leave a scratch on the damn things. Don’t even ask about our cart, interjects Chris. I’m worried it will drop a boulder on my foot any day now.
Chris and Pat are quite the pair. Pat is a relic from a time where hand crafted meant special and important, Chris from the contemporary era, where the same quality of work can only be seen as a simple trinket. Yet the traditions live on, the art persists, taking a new medium. There is one thing for certain, the duo are like two crystals in a geode.
He sits quietly in his chair, rocking back and forth polishing a bronze agate the size of a robin’s egg with a dingy rag. The air around him is filled with a quiet clamor from his mumblings as he continues polishing. Another much younger man leans against a red trailer staring intensely at his phone. The man in the chair is not a small man. Wearing a dirty checkered shirt and ripped blue jeans, and with his bushy grey beard he gives the distinct impression of a weathered lumberjack.
In his lap sits a polished twisted cane made from the branches of a diamond willow, a tree found only along sections of the Missouri river.
Families walk quickly by his stall averting their gaze from him. Despite that he looks up and gives a grin of more gums than teeth. The children freeze. Their stares are blank from fear or surprise. Then wide grins creep slowly to the corners of their faces as they laugh and run at the stall, not waiting another moment to gape at this man’s treasures.
This is the Haymarket Farmers’ Market. It is a place where tradition matters. It is a place where authenticity matters. It is a place where interaction with the customer matters. It is where the individual matters.
We are transitioning to a modern world where craftsmanship and art are being violently ripped apart. Efficiency is the only goal. When building we consider support strength, internal space, balance, elevator speed, resistance to decomposition, bathroom access, stair comfort, window tint, etcetera etcetera. But a craftsman takes pride in all his work, every design, every cut, every inch of what he makes is intended to serve an aesthetic purpose. That’s why for centuries artists would leave marks, signatures, and insignias on their pieces. There’s no point now, though.
Pat Akins is a craftsman.
He is doing more than handing children shiny pebbles and little jewels he’s passing on a tradition, a legacy far older and wider than himself, and Pat is a big boy. Pat comes from a big family, really big. He has five brothers. Each brother an artist of some discipline, one a carpenter, two construction workers, one metallurgist, and a wood carver. Not to mention their father, a carpenter for his entire life.
It doesn’t stop there either. Pat’s grandson Chris, now 22, has been a part of his grandfather’s business since he was in the third grade.
He still spends every Saturday in the summer down in the Farmers’ Market with his grandfather selling his beautiful collection of minerals. Even after carrying boulders totaling 2,000 lbs for the shop his interest in selling the stones still haven’t been jaded.
Today Chris attends the University of Nebraska Lincoln and is a senior pursuing a career in writing fiction with his English major. That hasn’t kept him from following his grandpa all around the Midwest to show and exhibit their materials. The two are an inseparable pair and their bond is obvious even to passerby.
You think the petrified wood is old? Once the old man fossilizes I’m going to put him on display and sell for a nice profit teases Chris. The old man doesn’t skip a beat, it would take a product as good looking as me for you to finally get a sale around here he says.
The farmers’ market is filled with funny man/ straight man banter all day. The majority of the stalls’ customers are attracted just by the humor trickling down the street. All the rest is done by the sparkling gems.
These two comedians aren’t all fun and games though. Pat has to step away from his stall on the phone to do business with two different groups of people.
The first is all of his suppliers, people Pat has met throughout his travels across the country and the globe. Even though you can’t tell from looking at him, Pat is not a stationary man. He’s sold a million trinkets on the side of his job working in construction. That extra money has let him go around the world. He has contacts in Brazil, South Africa, and the Czech Republic.
Once we actually went on vacation there (the Czech Republic) and while I was walking in the downtown area where there used to be a lot of conflict and I bent over and took a chunk of slab out of the ground where machine gun fire had damaged part of the pavilion. After that I took the slab and polished it with diamond powder and it’s now on my mantle.
The second is all of Pat’s online customers, who view his wares using a website that promotes local store owners. The website has galleries of his crystals, agates, and petrified logs and encourages anyone who’s interested to phone him immediately. He knows his wares so well he calculates the value in his head over the phone and shrewdly tells the final transaction’s cost. It’s an impressive scene, but Chris treats it like nothing.
It’s not impressive when you have several centuries’ worth of practice he jokes.
Pat begins to rant at the joke because does have a long history with the geodes. Thirteen years and his cutting and polishing rocks have forced him to replace equipment time and time again.
We have synthetic diamond saws, harder than natural diamonds, just wearing down little by little every day. Our diamond powder isn’t in any better shape; we seem to polish about a hundred stones before we have to look for another bag of the stuff. The petrified wood is tougher than steel, we have to polish our diamond saws with diamond powder just to leave a scratch on the damn things. Don’t even ask about our cart, interjects Chris. I’m worried it will drop a boulder on my foot any day now.
Chris and Pat are quite the pair. Pat is a relic from a time where hand crafted meant special and important, Chris from the contemporary era, where the same quality of work can only be seen as a simple trinket. Yet the traditions live on, the art persists, taking a new medium. There is one thing for certain, the duo are like two crystals in a geode.
Rocks, pebbles, and the like. Which I like.
Went and interviewed two gentlemen today. Amateur geologists, but incredibly funny. One was a large older man named Pat and the other his grandson Chris. Pat was busy most of the day but Chris was a very cool guy. He was interested in his grandfathers business since he was nine and has helped him ever since. I'm writing a piece on it, enjoy.
Friday, July 30, 2010
About a boy
This is a story about a boy. This boy is set. He has looks, charm, wit, intelligence, talent, humor, and a kind smile. At least he likes to think so. With all of these traits he earns good grades, recognition from his teachers and peers, and creates plenty of paths for his future. The only thing missing is the most important to him, friends.
This story is about communication. It’s about interaction. It’s about fear, and shame, and loneliness. It’s about a person who led life alone, unaccompanied, solitary. Not separate from the world by choice but merely by circumstance. It’s all about trying to find a place of comfort and acceptance by leaving behind all one knows. Ultimately, it’s about friendship.
Society has evolved, so fast that it often has trouble keeping pace with itself. The values and ideas of fifty years ago are deliberately debased today. Once childhood was considered a sacred time for kids to learn values and establish relationships with others. It was a time where hard work was respected over ability and the future stayed well ahead of the mind. Now the values of society scoff at these ideals. Instead the contemporary world wishes that children begin their life with the end in mind. If what someone is doing now does not have a recognizable benefit towards their future, it is considered inefficient and unnecessary. Essentially, children would be much better off if they were robots, robots working hard solely for the purpose of working. These children alienate themselves from each other, tainting what makes them human.
This boy was a robot, an outcast. Before he knew any better he was programmed to work hard. It wasn’t about doing his best; it was about doing better than everyone else’s best. All work and no play made him a bright boy. However he was still alone. His name was well known, but it wasn’t popularity that garnered the attention. It was different, he was different, the weird kind of different. That’s why kids avoided him, he was uncommon. A smile wouldn’t fix the stares or whispers when he sat alone. A hello would just avert the gaze upon him temporarily. Playing on a team or working in a group only made his observers become hostile to him. Yet all it took was a hand to make all the stares, the judgments, the hate seem invisible.
The teacher lectured on about some component to English grammar that at the time was a futile attempt to teach a class of fidgety fourth graders. The English wasn’t bad, most kids just doodled or daydreamed too bored to even give their attention to the boy sitting in the back absorbing it all. Why wouldn’t he? Didn’t his family tell him time and time again that any knowledge is useful knowledge, and those who turn away from it only invite a doomed life on the streets or working in fast food forever. A long haired boy who was new to the class turned around and actually looked at the outcast. They were both startled. One at the quizzical and worried look of the outcast wondering what possibly could this long haired boy do, and the other surprised merely by the firsts expression. The boy shook it off quickly and asked for a piece of paper. I don’t have a spiral, so I need yours he said and grabbed the notebook off of the desk. The outcast didn’t reply, this was common and he always kept an extra just in case that was to happen. The day proceeded like any other. At recess the outcast walked across the back of the soccer fields just like any other day, almost. Before he even passed the goal post he was drilled by a soccer ball. It was lights out; he hurt and was humiliated about the event. Surely the kids would laugh at him and it would be news for the rest of the day. It was silent. He opened his eyes and to his immediate shock saw a hand reaching down for him. I’m Ian, he said. Thanks for letting me use your paper by the way. I left my stuff at home. The outcast was stunned. He didn’t understand why the kid had any reason to acknowledge him. All he could do was stammer back, I’m Scott, and smile.
This story is about communication. It’s about interaction. It’s about fear, and shame, and loneliness. It’s about a person who led life alone, unaccompanied, solitary. Not separate from the world by choice but merely by circumstance. It’s all about trying to find a place of comfort and acceptance by leaving behind all one knows. Ultimately, it’s about friendship.
Society has evolved, so fast that it often has trouble keeping pace with itself. The values and ideas of fifty years ago are deliberately debased today. Once childhood was considered a sacred time for kids to learn values and establish relationships with others. It was a time where hard work was respected over ability and the future stayed well ahead of the mind. Now the values of society scoff at these ideals. Instead the contemporary world wishes that children begin their life with the end in mind. If what someone is doing now does not have a recognizable benefit towards their future, it is considered inefficient and unnecessary. Essentially, children would be much better off if they were robots, robots working hard solely for the purpose of working. These children alienate themselves from each other, tainting what makes them human.
This boy was a robot, an outcast. Before he knew any better he was programmed to work hard. It wasn’t about doing his best; it was about doing better than everyone else’s best. All work and no play made him a bright boy. However he was still alone. His name was well known, but it wasn’t popularity that garnered the attention. It was different, he was different, the weird kind of different. That’s why kids avoided him, he was uncommon. A smile wouldn’t fix the stares or whispers when he sat alone. A hello would just avert the gaze upon him temporarily. Playing on a team or working in a group only made his observers become hostile to him. Yet all it took was a hand to make all the stares, the judgments, the hate seem invisible.
The teacher lectured on about some component to English grammar that at the time was a futile attempt to teach a class of fidgety fourth graders. The English wasn’t bad, most kids just doodled or daydreamed too bored to even give their attention to the boy sitting in the back absorbing it all. Why wouldn’t he? Didn’t his family tell him time and time again that any knowledge is useful knowledge, and those who turn away from it only invite a doomed life on the streets or working in fast food forever. A long haired boy who was new to the class turned around and actually looked at the outcast. They were both startled. One at the quizzical and worried look of the outcast wondering what possibly could this long haired boy do, and the other surprised merely by the firsts expression. The boy shook it off quickly and asked for a piece of paper. I don’t have a spiral, so I need yours he said and grabbed the notebook off of the desk. The outcast didn’t reply, this was common and he always kept an extra just in case that was to happen. The day proceeded like any other. At recess the outcast walked across the back of the soccer fields just like any other day, almost. Before he even passed the goal post he was drilled by a soccer ball. It was lights out; he hurt and was humiliated about the event. Surely the kids would laugh at him and it would be news for the rest of the day. It was silent. He opened his eyes and to his immediate shock saw a hand reaching down for him. I’m Ian, he said. Thanks for letting me use your paper by the way. I left my stuff at home. The outcast was stunned. He didn’t understand why the kid had any reason to acknowledge him. All he could do was stammer back, I’m Scott, and smile.
Editorial
Little over three weeks ago the Missoula County Public Schools Board of Trustees considered a new policy concerning students’ publications and the Board’s ability to restrict their work. By using the word “socially inappropriate” as the basis for their intervention with students’ work, the Board could interfere with more pieces than the Hazelwood act set in 1988 has ever had the potential to.
The Board is essentially increasing its reach and influence on its schools’ publications by passing this. If the Hazelwood act tied up student journalists this policy would literally shackle student journalists. Because of the wording the Board is essentially exploiting a loophole that allows them to suppress almost any sort of content they deem harmful or radical to the Missoula Public Schools. This is criminal to withdraw students’ rights. To limit student journalists from writing what they believe is necessary is akin to spitting in their faces. It is a form of ageism, discrimination based upon individuals’ age, to infer that with youth comes haphazard reporting and irresponsible synthesis of material. This sort of control due to lack of respect or trust is unacceptable.
Since “Socially inappropriate” is not legally defined the possibility for media to meet this criterion is exponential. Therefore the Board has complete power over every publication. This is worsened by a fact that Elizabeth Kaleva, the school district’s attorney, openly admits.
“It’s not common knowledge, frankly, that students have First Amendment rights," she said. "And [it’s] not uncommon for people to say, 'Well, just shut them down.' It's hard for me to explain that we can't do that -- and we don't."
The key portion there is that people are unaware of their rights. Students should not lay back and accept these conditions because they are unaware of their rights.
To avert this journalistic sacrilege so to speak the Missoula County Public Schools Board of Trustees must consider this policy in a new light. It is not a policy of protection but a policy of control.
The Board is essentially increasing its reach and influence on its schools’ publications by passing this. If the Hazelwood act tied up student journalists this policy would literally shackle student journalists. Because of the wording the Board is essentially exploiting a loophole that allows them to suppress almost any sort of content they deem harmful or radical to the Missoula Public Schools. This is criminal to withdraw students’ rights. To limit student journalists from writing what they believe is necessary is akin to spitting in their faces. It is a form of ageism, discrimination based upon individuals’ age, to infer that with youth comes haphazard reporting and irresponsible synthesis of material. This sort of control due to lack of respect or trust is unacceptable.
Since “Socially inappropriate” is not legally defined the possibility for media to meet this criterion is exponential. Therefore the Board has complete power over every publication. This is worsened by a fact that Elizabeth Kaleva, the school district’s attorney, openly admits.
“It’s not common knowledge, frankly, that students have First Amendment rights," she said. "And [it’s] not uncommon for people to say, 'Well, just shut them down.' It's hard for me to explain that we can't do that -- and we don't."
The key portion there is that people are unaware of their rights. Students should not lay back and accept these conditions because they are unaware of their rights.
To avert this journalistic sacrilege so to speak the Missoula County Public Schools Board of Trustees must consider this policy in a new light. It is not a policy of protection but a policy of control.
I'm typing in class, sitting on my... chair.
Dear avid readers,
I'm afraid I have some sad news. I'm slowly developing muscular dystrophy. Typing during J-camp is becoming my most efficient form of exercise. Most people could argue that at least walking to classes should be my most tiring activity, but I would like to classify it as travel. So to speak, I'm improving my travel department at least.
I'm afraid I have some sad news. I'm slowly developing muscular dystrophy. Typing during J-camp is becoming my most efficient form of exercise. Most people could argue that at least walking to classes should be my most tiring activity, but I would like to classify it as travel. So to speak, I'm improving my travel department at least.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Homework One
This is Becky, Becky Gasper to be exact. Becky enjoys the kinds of things every girl her age does. Drawing pictures, writing stories, going to the movies, or listening to her music are all activities that are pretty commonplace in her life. She even gets along with her two older siblings, offering to babysit if necessary. She also has aspirations to travel to Africa if she ever gets the opportunity. There is one thing about Becky that might be a surprise. She shoots things, really well.
Looking like an average babysitter with her smile and short blonde hair may not allude to the fact that Becky is made of tougher stuff than most girls, but she compensates with her steel resolve from trapshooting to spider killing. Her general demeanor is quiet and friendly, but when she speaks about her passion of trapshooting her eyes become serious and her tone steady.
To those unacquainted with it, trapshooting sounds like a very morbid sport. However in actuality it is quite affable. The sport has few needs as far as materials. Shotgun, clay discs called rocks or birds, and ammo are the only items needed. The field itself is a 16 to 25 foot shooting range equipped with a house, a machine that throws the discs in random trajectories, where the shooters line up to take their shots. The game starts with 25 discs being hurled by the houses haphazardly across the range. The shooter then proceeds to shoot each disc, hopefully. After their first 25 are shot or flung the amount destroyed are counted and averaged out. Then the shooters are handicapped by their average and moved back farther. This distance change is the challenge that even the most seasoned shooters deal with. At this point the game evolves. It is not longer a sport, but a science. Variables such as weather and distance must be dealt with by selecting the appropriate gear. For example 20 feet away in a heavy wind is going to require a tight choke to avoid scattered bullets and a heavier load to reduce wind effect.
Becky has never been introduced into trapshooting; instead she was born into it. Nearly her entire family competes in the sport. With her father and brother being heavily involved and talented in the sport Becky was quickly thrust into trapshooting. It’s become so intrinsic to her she rattles off massive amounts of info about the sport nonchalantly almost ignoring the time it takes to stop and think. That explains why she’s on the first team and has eleven or so medals from competitions.
“My school has always been willing to accept the awards our team has received, but when it comes to our team we’re acknowledged, not supported.” Becky said. The school displays medals and awards won by the team, but the team is not school sanctioned. The use of guns in the sport validates the school’s unease of accepting it yet they insist on displaying the medals Becky and her teammates won, with the use of guns.
A continued struggle with the school to accept trapshooting could have two diverse outcomes. The first outcome would cause an inclusion of the sport to the school, benefitting the athletes with more funding and support. The second outcome would instead push the school to completely separate itself from the team taking from display the multiple awards they have won in competition. Until then the only thing left to do is to just keep on shooting.
Looking like an average babysitter with her smile and short blonde hair may not allude to the fact that Becky is made of tougher stuff than most girls, but she compensates with her steel resolve from trapshooting to spider killing. Her general demeanor is quiet and friendly, but when she speaks about her passion of trapshooting her eyes become serious and her tone steady.
To those unacquainted with it, trapshooting sounds like a very morbid sport. However in actuality it is quite affable. The sport has few needs as far as materials. Shotgun, clay discs called rocks or birds, and ammo are the only items needed. The field itself is a 16 to 25 foot shooting range equipped with a house, a machine that throws the discs in random trajectories, where the shooters line up to take their shots. The game starts with 25 discs being hurled by the houses haphazardly across the range. The shooter then proceeds to shoot each disc, hopefully. After their first 25 are shot or flung the amount destroyed are counted and averaged out. Then the shooters are handicapped by their average and moved back farther. This distance change is the challenge that even the most seasoned shooters deal with. At this point the game evolves. It is not longer a sport, but a science. Variables such as weather and distance must be dealt with by selecting the appropriate gear. For example 20 feet away in a heavy wind is going to require a tight choke to avoid scattered bullets and a heavier load to reduce wind effect.
Becky has never been introduced into trapshooting; instead she was born into it. Nearly her entire family competes in the sport. With her father and brother being heavily involved and talented in the sport Becky was quickly thrust into trapshooting. It’s become so intrinsic to her she rattles off massive amounts of info about the sport nonchalantly almost ignoring the time it takes to stop and think. That explains why she’s on the first team and has eleven or so medals from competitions.
“My school has always been willing to accept the awards our team has received, but when it comes to our team we’re acknowledged, not supported.” Becky said. The school displays medals and awards won by the team, but the team is not school sanctioned. The use of guns in the sport validates the school’s unease of accepting it yet they insist on displaying the medals Becky and her teammates won, with the use of guns.
A continued struggle with the school to accept trapshooting could have two diverse outcomes. The first outcome would cause an inclusion of the sport to the school, benefitting the athletes with more funding and support. The second outcome would instead push the school to completely separate itself from the team taking from display the multiple awards they have won in competition. Until then the only thing left to do is to just keep on shooting.
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